


Out (For a Drink)

by bendingsignpost



Series: Tumblr Fic [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Activist Castiel (Supernatural), First Meetings, Homosexuality, M/M, Russian Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 14:57:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15888354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendingsignpost/pseuds/bendingsignpost
Summary: He's traveled to an entirely different country, and somehow, the most daring thing he's done is gotten willfully lost for the sake of a quiet night out.





	Out (For a Drink)

**Author's Note:**

> anonymous  asked:  
> Destiel fic prompt: Dean is a skilled worker (welder? construction?) in a fly-over American town. Castiel has just gotten his green card from somewhere or other former Russia. They meet in the town's one bar.

The men are rough, crass, and a very specific dream come true. An American stereotype incarnate. Their speaks bubbles and stretches and breaks in far different ways than English had near the coast. Seated at the smallest table alone, Castiel listens in, claiming to himself that this observation is for his educational benefit. In all honesty, it is far too late into the night for his mind to benefit from this excursion. 

In all honesty, it is not his mind he intends to indulge. 

For now, he indulges only his eyes, only his ears. The men entered in staggered numbers, but all clearly belong to the same group, recognizing one another, clapping each other on arms and back and—more jarringly—the rear. Their ages vary as widely as their body types, but they are all  _men_  in a heady, sweaty sense of the word. Fat and thin, overtly muscular and otherwise, they are men who work with hands and materials and sweat. There is a thrill, illicit and illogical as it is, to be among such men and picking out one to lust over. As if such an act might be a casual pastime. 

More than one notices Castiel watching, and Castiel returns his attention to his beer. Let them think him quiet. Let them think him brooding. 

One comes forward to Castiel. His forearms are tan and freckled, a perfect match to his face. The beauty of his hands is echoed in his lips. His plaid shirtsleeves are rolled to the elbow and his undershirt between the buttons is dark with sweat, with labor and prowess. 

The man speaks. In the time it takes Castiel’s tired mind to parse “Hey, we need these chairs,“ the man has already taken two of the three remaining chairs. 

The night moves further into darkness and drink. Many of the men leave. The man with the pleasing freckles and pleasurable mouth doesn’t. The longer Castiel drinks and keeps his head down, the fewer look at him. Castiel’s chosen object of desire for the evening is one of that few. They meet each other’s eyes more than once. Hazel, Castiel thinks at first, but that is a suggestion of the darkness. The man moves more directly beneath one of the lights, and the color of his eyes glows like a single green apple in a tower of red. 

The hour grows later and later still. When Castiel orders a new beer to replace the one that came before, he signals by hand and pays immediately with cash. Let them think him odd. 

He returns to his table. 

The man comes with him. 

The man speaks, and he is beautiful. Castiel doesn’t know enough words for him in English, and Russian has become as much of a risk as revealing his own attractions. 

Very carefully, not catching the man’s speech the first time, Castiel asks, “Excuse me?”

“I said, do you mind if I sit?” The man points at the remaining chair. 

Of course. Castiel gestures it to him, but instead of taking it away as he had the rest, the man sits in it instead. He sits and he drinks. They both do. 

The bar empties out slowly. The man doesn’t move. Castiel can’t bring himself to, either. They look at each other, and there is intent in this man’s eyes. 

Before they are entirely alone in the room, but nearly alone in their near-sobriety, the man pulls out his mobile phone. He scrolls through something, ignoring Castiel as he has grown used to being ignored. Asylum has many forms, he is learning. 

The man lowers his phone to the table, screen side down. “I’m Dean,” he says. He offers his lovely hand, work-roughened, shaped by scrapes and scars. He is everything Castiel was brought up never to want, let alone hunger for. 

Castiel takes that hand in his, but only for the acceptable length of a shake. “It is ple- is  _a_  pleasure to meet you, Dean,” he says carefully. Let Dean think him drunk. 

Dean grins. “And what’s your name?”

“Castiel,” he admits, his accent clearly slipping through stronger as he pronounces his name correctly. 

Dean grins wider. “Spelled like this?”

And he turns over his phone to show Castiel an article he already knows well. 

Castiel pushes his chair back from the table. 

Dean holds up a placating hand. “Whoa, hey. It’s- It’s not like that. I’m-” He scoots his chair in further. “I’m... a fan.”

Castiel frowns at him. 

“Bet it takes a lot for a gay rights activist to get asylum in the ol’ US of A,” Dean says in a lowered voice. “I just can’t figure out what the hell you’re doing in this bar.”

“Being no one,” Castiel says, “and enjoying it.”

“Oh,” says Dean as if this is bad news. “Well.” He pushes chair back. “Bar’s closing in about fifteen minutes, but if you wanted to come back to my place to talk about being no one—or someone pretty awesome and stupidly brave—then I bet we could have a pretty good talk.”

“A talk,” Castiel repeats. 

With his back to his cohorts, Dean’s eyes travel down Castiel’s body in an undisguised investigation. The heat in his gaze warms each place it touches. “Been a while since I’ve had a good talk.”

Castiel wets his dry mouth with beer. It isn’t good beer, and he now minds much less. “If this is a trick, there are people who will look for me.”

Dean blinks. He leans back. Then he leans forward, again closer to Castiel without entering his space. “If anyone gives you shit here, you point them to me. All right? Shit with you about that is shit with me, got it?”

“I think so,” Castiel says slowly. “My English needs more practice.”

Dean looks at Castiel with a question that needs no translation. 

“...A talk might help with that,” Castiel says. 

“A talk can help with a lot of things,” Dean agrees. 

-

Pillow talk helps most of all. 

**Author's Note:**

> To see what else I'm working on, you can follow me on [tumblr here](http://bendingsignpost.tumblr.com/).


End file.
